


werewolves of london

by mardia



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-12-09 15:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11671797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: A series of snippets set in an AU where Nightingale was bitten by a werewolf at Ettersberg. Eventual Peter/Nightingale.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is...very self-indulgent (as I'm sure you spotted from the title, lol) and yes, it's a WIP, although I'm going to do my best to have each snippet be self-contained and not end on any outrageous cliff-hangers. Posting on the AO3 for ease and for archiving purposes. 
> 
> Title is from the Warren Zevon song (I REALLY couldn't resist) and thanks and blame go out to everyone who told me to post this, you know who you are.

There’s a strange tension at the breakfast table that I don’t understand, not until Nightingale sets aside his fork and knife and looks up at me, a determined set to his mouth. “The full moon is in a week from now.”

I stare at him, not sure what I’m supposed to say next. In the short time I’ve been living at the Folly, Nightingale’s actively discouraged any questions I have about him being a werewolf, despite the fact that he’s not only the first werewolf that I’ve ever met, and that before meeting him I never knew werewolves existed. (Or vampires, or river goddesses, or wizards, or...whatever Molly is.) 

“Yeah, I know,” I say at last, cautiously. I’ve been keeping a calendar to track the phases of the moon, another thing I’ve never discussed with Nightingale. 

“Given that the Folly is now your home as well as mine, I think it only fair that we discuss your options for the evening.”

“My options,” I repeat, slowly. 

Nightingale nods. “I should stress that in my--other form, I still retain sentience and pose no physical threat to you, or indeed, the general public. However, if you feel uncomfortable, you’re welcome to stay in the couch house for the evening, or to take yourself elsewhere if you prefer--a hotel, perhaps.”

“Um,” I say, trying to stall for time while I work out what to say. It’s normally impossible to get Nightingale to talk about his--other form, and I don't want to mess it up now he's finally decided to.

But then I glance up, and catch a hint of wariness in the way that Nightingale’s watching me, and suddenly, it’s really important to say something, even if I mess it up along the way. 

“Sorry, sir,” I say to him. “I just want to be clear, is this a question of...of privacy? Because if it is, I’m happy to stay in my room for the evening. Or, you know, stay in the coach house, if that would be easier.”

Nightingale glances down, only for a moment, but that’s enough to tell me I’m on the right track. 

“I’ve...it’s been determined that if I’m trapped in small spaces, it doesn’t go well,” Nightingale says, his voice softer. “I’ll be...prowling, essentially. And it might be...uncomfortable for you to be here if that’s the case.”

“Really?” I say, doubtful. “Because Molly prowls around this place all the time, and I’m getting used to that just fine.” Nightingale’s mouth twitches at this, and I smile back, tentatively. 

But Nightingale’s expression sobers, and he says, carefully, "I know that people can find it...alarming, to see me like that." Nightingale's voice is very even, but he's still watching my face so carefully, as if he's on high alert, as if--

And then I remember one of the few details about himself that Nightingale had offered up freely at the beginning, that his hearing, even in human form, was acute enough that he could not only hear my heartbeat, but tell enough from the speed and rhythm to make, in his words, "a highly educated guess" as to whether I was in distress, or if I was possibly lying, or if I was just--

The words fall out of my mouth in a rush. "I'm not frightened to be here, if that's what you're wondering."

Nightingale's pause before answering tells me I've hit it dead on. "There's no shame in it if you are."

"Yeah, but I'm not," I say stoutly, and it's _true_ \--I'm a bit nervous, fair enough, but scared is a different thing entirely. Scary is people's faces falling off, is a baby being thrown out a window, is your brain curdling on an overdose of magic. 

Nightingale, with his tailored suits and careful manners and tightly leashed magic, magic all the more powerful for the control he has over it--Nightingale is a lot of things, but he's not terrifying, not like that. Not to me at least, even if he can transform on command into a wolf, and God, what I wouldn't give to figure out how that worked. 

But that's for another time, so I fall back on a fact even he can't argue with. "You'd have never let me move in here if you were an actual threat to my safety," I point out, and Nightingale blinks. "And Dr. Walid would've warned me off well in advance, so it's fine, and I know that it's fine."

And now Nightingale's just staring at me, that surprised look I've only managed to get out of him once before, during that first job interview,when he transformed his hand into a paw right there in front of me and I'd blurted out, "Fuck me, that's amazing, how the hell did you do that?"

Which, you know, is perhaps not the most dignified response to finding out your would-be boss is a werewolf, but it still had Nightingale reacting the same way, that wide-eyed look, like I'd caught him unawares. 

Much like the way he's looking at me now.

"All right," Nightingale says, before all this silent staring we're doing can get awkward--or more awkward. "I'm...glad that's settled."

"Right," I say, and turn back in relief to my eggs.


	2. full moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first full moon Peter spends at the Folly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more shameless werewolf fic! I swear to God this fic is going to earn its rating eventually, things just have to build up first. also I'm playing fast and loose with the general timeline of the first book, just assume Nightingale started tutoring Peter in Latin straight away rather than waiting until later on.

On the night of the full moon in question, I set myself up at a table in the general library with my Latin homework. I make sure to sit in a position where I can glance at the door where I want to, but I’m not sitting facing it or with my back to it either. 

It's six minutes past moonrise--not that I'm counting, I just looked up the times on my phone earlier--when the door to the library, which I'd left open by a crack, opens all the way, and a giant gray-and-brown wolf appears in the doorway, Molly lurking in the hallway behind him. 

I may have looked up a video or two of wolves in the wild earlier this week, just to prepare, so on a basic level I know that wolves are bigger than most people think they are, and I told myself to expect it, but that’s a different thing entirely to seeing it in person, to seeing how big this wolf--how big _Nightingale_ is in this form, that even if he seems thinner than the wolves in the videos, his fur patchy in places and not seeming very well-kempt, he’s still fucking enormous, still triggering the instinct in my head that told me a predator was nearby, that I should keep myself still and not make any sudden movements.

I'm not afraid, I had told him just a few days earlier. 

Now it was time to make that be true. 

"Hello, sir," I say, and I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds. Nightingale is still standing in the doorway, looking at me, holding himself still, his muzzle closed, a clear attempt to make himself look as unthreatening as possible. "Nice to see you."

And it is, despite the tiny part of my caveman brain that’s on high alert for those teeth and those claws, and the juvenile part of me that wants to start giddily humming a certain Warren Zevon song, which I won't, because I'm not a knobhead. 

Also Nightingale and Molly probably wouldn't understand the reference if I did. 

Nightingale cocks his head, and then he starts to approach slowly, gray eyes fixed on me. Molly follows him in, also watching me, with an expression on her face that says I'd better not fuck this up, not if I know what's good for me.

I keep myself seated, but let my hands drop to my sides, keeping them open and relaxed. Nightingale lets out a soft huff as he reaches my chair, sniffing at me in a way I can only describe as delicate, almost--and then he circles the desk, and then does it again, but in a wider circumference this time. 

I don't pretend not to watch him doing it, and I make an effort to keep my breathing even and steady--I can't control whatever my heartbeat is doing, and whatever Nightingale is deducing from it as a result--but I can try and control my response, keep myself as calm as I can. 

Truthfully, it gets easier as the minutes go on, that instinctive response to seeing a predator in front of you fading, to be replaced with open curiosity--just how does he manage that transformation? Why are his eyes still gray in this form? Is it coincidence, or is he keeping some physical characteristics across both forms, even if his pelt is the same tawny color you’d expect from European wolves, and just what the _fuck_ happened to the principle of conservation of mass--

I’m so involved in watching him and trying to figure this all out, that I don’t even realize that Molly’s approaching me until she’s arrived at my desk, and is smoothly gathering up my books in her arms. 

“Wait, what?” I ask, surprised, and she just looks at me and then inclines her head towards the door, clearly indicating I should go with her. 

Backing her up, Nightingale starts circling my desk again, nudging at my chair, and once I get up he starts circling _me_ , the sturdy bulk of him brushing against my legs until I give in and start towards the open door, Molly serenely walking ahead of me, like it’s a given I’m coming along. 

I am, in short, most definitely being herded, and between Nightingale and Molly, there’s no way I could escape, even if I wanted to. So I follow Molly down the stairs and through the corridors, until we eventually reach the kitchen, where Toby is already excitedly barking in his makeshift cot as we come in. 

I glance down and over at Nightingale, who’s staring at Toby, and I feel a faint moment of alarm--

\--but then I come to my senses, because what’s true for me is true for Toby as well. Nightingale would’ve never let us keep him if he’d thought there was any danger. 

Besides, the bemused look on Nightingale’s face--crystal-clear, even in this form--as he looks down at Toby, who’s practically leaping for joy as he barks his tiny head off is simply too good to be missed. He actually cocks his head to one side, ears pricked up, then tentatively reaches out a paw to try and hold Toby down, or at least keep him at a reasonable distance. 

I don’t actually start laughing, but I do have to bite my lip quite hard. Next to me, Molly is smiling behind her hand, which she has covering her mouth as usual. 

Nightingale looks at both of us, like he can tell that we're both biting back laughter now, and I grin back at him. 

"Well, we do need him to keep up his exercise, don't we sir," I say, my voice only a little bit strangled from my held-back laughter, and Nightingale makes a little sub-vocal noise that isn't quite a growl in response, and then stalks out of the room with as much dignity as he can manage when he's got a small yappy dog delightedly chasing him. 

But once he's left, though, I realize that I'm not quite sure what I'm meant to be doing. "Am I just supposed to stay here, then?" I ask, and Molly gives me a look, and then pointedly sets down all my books on the kitchen table. 

Well, that's that, then.

I'm deep in verb tenses by the time Nightingale comes back, Toby still following, and Nightingale comes right up to the table, the bulk of him almost, but not quite, brushing against my leg. I hold up my book to show him, and explain, "Practicing my Latin, sir."

Nightingale bobs his head in what I have to interpret as an approving gesture, but doesn't actually move away. My left hand is resting on my knee, and Nightingale is right there, only inches away--

I can't touch him. Obviously I can't touch him. Even in this form, he's still my boss, and I don't want to make this any weirder than it has to be, or make him uncomfortable. But he's still there, as if he's waiting for something, so I hesitantly turn my hand so that it's now resting with my palm facing upwards, and Nightingale doesn't pause, he just lowers his head and sniffs at it, the cool nose just brushing my lifeline. 

I can't imagine what he can pick up in this form, and I try not to worry about it. No point in worrying at this point, anyway. 

Molly’s off chopping up some raw meat for Toby, and it’s not until she turns around with two plates of raw meat and sets them down on the floor that I realize Nightingale needs to eat as well. Both Nightingale and Molly look over at me, to see how I’m going to take it. 

I shrug. “I could fix myself some food as well, I’m feeling rather peckish.”

Molly looks affronted at the notion of someone else cooking in her kitchen, and quickly whisks herself off, with a glare at my direction, but Nightingale lets out a huff, tongue lolling out in what can only be a grin, before he lowers his head down and starts to eat. I turn my attention back to the Latin verbs, smiling to myself, before my stomach starts to growl at the smells coming from Molly’s oven.

I end up getting a really lovely meat pie for dinner, but I’m only halfway through it when Nightingale whisks himself off again, Toby trotting at his heels again, but a bit more slowly this time. 

“Is he going to be doing this all night, going in and out like that?” I ask Molly, who nods and shrugs, as if to say, Yes, and what can you do?

“All right, then,” I say, and finish off the rest of my pie. Once I’ve cleaned my plate, I look to my Latin homework again and groan without thinking. Think I might’ve overdosed on Latin for the day, honestly. 

“Should’ve brought more books with me,” I say to myself, and glance up to see Molly giving me a curious look. 

“Don’t suppose I could go upstairs and grab some more books,” I say to her, and then blink at myself, for assuming I’ll be spending the entire evening here. 

But I am, obviously--I want to see this through, whatever it is. And the kitchen’s become more welcoming since I arrived, the warmth and the easy--if silent--company all conspiring to make me feel relaxed, comfortable. 

Molly shrugs, and I don’t have to be offered the opening twice. 

For a minute, taking the stairs up to my room, I wonder what it’ll be like, to stumble across Nightingale in the dim hallways like this, see those eyes glowing in the dark, maybe--but the only sound I can hear is Toby faintly yapping, and there’s nothing to be seen. 

I come back to the kitchen with a pack of Discworld novels under my arm, and when I come in, Molly looks at them inquiringly, frowning a little at the beaten-up paperbacks, the cracks at the spine, how some of them are literally being held together with tape. “Don’t worry, I have copies on an e-reader,” I say to her cheerfully. “These are just the ones I had when I was a kid--birthday presents from my mum.”

My mum’s preference for gifts (both her own and the ones she likes to give to others) are practical things, clothes, money. But when I was growing up she’d made the effort, every year, to go to Waterstones and pick me out a book she’d knew I’d like and want to keep.

Molly’s still looking them over, her long pale fingers stroking the cover to Wyrd Sisters, and I offer impulsively, “You can borrow them, if you like.”

Molly looks at me, then gestures at the pile of vegetables she’s prepping for tomorrow’s meals. She’s still looking at the book though, at the cover illustration of Granny Weatherwax, and I offer next, “Or I can just read it out loud, seeing as we’ll be in here all night.”

Molly looks pleased at the suggestion, and I crack my copy of Wyrd Sisters open to the first page and start to read. Molly’s still at work on the food, chopping away gleefully, but I can tell she’s listening from the way she hisses with laughter at the funny lines. 

I’m about a chapter in when I sense something, pine and smoke and the faint sound of the wind in the trees. “Hello, sir,” I say without turning around. “Just reading some Pratchett.”

Toby flops into his little cot without a sound, clearly worn out by his rambles with Nightingale through the Folly’s corridors. Nightingale, though, he just lays right by my left foot, resting his head on his front paws, watching me out of the side of his eye. 

“Should I keep going then?” I ask, only a little bit cheekily, and Nightingale lets out a low whuff, and Molly glares at me over my shoulder. I grin and keep going with the story, sipping at the cup of tea Molly’s made. 

It’s almost...shockingly domestic, sitting here in the kitchen, Toby dozing in his cot, a werewolf at my feet and Molly hovering about, me reading aloud a story I’ve read a dozen times over to myself. With one thing and another, it takes me a while to realize how late it’s gotten, and it’s not until I yawn for the third time that I finally think to look at the time. 

“Oh, God,” I mumble, rubbing at my eyes as I set the book down on the table. “Think I’m going to need something stronger than tea at this point.”

Nightingale lets out a low rumble of sound, and for a minute I think I’m going to be dismissed off to go to bed, and I’m surprised, how disappointed I feel at the thought. A soft bed sounds great, don’t get me wrong, but the idea of going off to my bedroom and missing out on this, whatever it is, is--

Molly taps my shoulder, and I jump, not realizing she was right behind me. She holds up one finger, signalling for me to wait, and then disappears through the door. I don’t know what she’s getting at, not until she comes back, arms filled with bedding, and in less time than I would’ve thought possible, she’s whipped together a makeshift bed in one corner of the kitchen. 

“I don’t need to sleep, not right now,” I protest, and both Molly and Nightingale look at me. The look from Molly is nothing new, but it’s honestly impressive how much skepticism Nightingale is radiating right now, without even saying a word. Then he deliberately knocks his side against my knees, urging me on in the direction of the bed and--

It does look inviting. “Just a quick nap,” I say, and despite myself I yawn again. Fuck. 

Honestly, by the time I’m settling my head on the pillow I’m already half-dozing, and I blink sleepily at Nightingale, who’s on his feet and watching me, looking alert, head cocked to one angle. 

As my eyes drift shut, I think for one second that I can see his eyes glowing a little, but that’s probably just a reflection of the light. 

*

It’d be nice to say that I woke up after twenty minutes, refreshed and alert, and stayed up for the rest of the full moon. 

In reality, I sleep through the entire night, and I only wake up to the smell of cooking food, and Nightingale gently shaking my shoulder--with a hand, not a paw. 

“What,” I mumble, before my eyes open to the side of Nightingale hovering over me, back to his human form, his hair mussed and falling over his forehead, wearing a dressing gown and striped pajamas. The dressing gown’s untied and one of the buttons is undone on his pajama shirt--he must have gotten dressed in a hurry, after last night--

“You’re human again,” I say dumbly, and I get the ghost of a smile at that. 

“Yes, it appears so.” He’s still watching me, though, seemingly waiting for something, except that I’m still drowsy and I haven’t had my coffee yet, which is the only excuse I have for why I say, “That was a good full moon. Looking forward to the next one.”

Nightingale doesn’t say anything at first, and I start to wake up a little more, thinking I’ve overstepped, but then he says, slowly, as if he’s testing the words even as he’s saying them out loud, “Yes...as am I.”

*

Molly sets out a full English breakfast in the breakfast room that morning. Nobody talks much during the meal, but it’s a comfortable silence, Nightingale and I passing bits of food to Toby under the table when Molly’s back is turned. A couple of times, I think I can tell that Nightingale’s watching me, but I never catch him actually staring. 

After I’ve finished eating, I make a point of leaving behind my copy of Wyrd Sisters on the table along with my dishes. Doesn’t seem fair, making Molly wait an entire month to find out how the story ends. Nightingale sees me do it, of course, and he doesn’t say anything, but I catch his mouth curving up in another one of those half-smiles of his.

When I poke my head into the room an hour later, the dishes have all been cleared, and the book’s nowhere to be found.


	3. Lesley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesley groans and puts her face in her hand. “Trust you to be totally okay with having a ravenous monster for a boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're still in the setup/foreshadowing phase, but trust me, more plot, and more full-moon sleepovers are coming soon! 
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who's been leaving feedback, whether it's kudos or comments or whatever, it's SUPER appreciated. Feel free to stop by my tumblr if you'd like to drop a line or ask a question.

"So," Lesley says, and from the tone of her voice I already know I'm in for it, no matter what she says next, "Is your boss a werewolf or isn't he?"

Because this isn't a C-level Hollywood comedy, I don't actually choke on my kebab, but I do pause mid-swallow, while Lesley watches me for my reply. Once I finally finish chewing and swallowing, I ask, “Where’d you get that?”

“Beverley,” Lesley replies promptly, leaning back against the park bench we’re both sitting on. “And Seawoll didn’t deny it when I asked him, he just got very gruff and told me to talk to you about it. So?”

“Yeah,” I say, because there’s no other answer available, and because it’s not something I need to _hide_ , not really. “He is, actually.”

Lesley, for all that she nonchalantly sprung the question on me in the first place, looks absolutely gobsmacked to get a response in the affirmative. “Seriously? Peter, what the _hell_.”

“What?” 

Lesley’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment, and then she bursts out, “Is there nothing about your job that is even the least bit normal? _Werewolves_ , really?”

“It makes sense when you think about it,” I argue. “If vampires are a thing that exist, why shouldn’t there be werewolves?”

Lesley groans and puts her face in her hand. “Trust you to be totally okay with having a ravenous monster for a boss.”

It’s delivered like a joke, except the words don’t sit right. “He’s not, though,” I say, trying not to frown. “He just--looks like a wolf once a month, that’s all. He’s not actually dangerous.”

It’s not exactly true, or at least the truth is more complicated than that simple explanation, but “ravenous monster” is so far from accurate that I can’t let that pass.

“Is that what he’s told you, or do you have actual evidence,” Lesley says, sounding and looking skeptical. “Because given what your housekeeper’s like, and given the whole risk of brain damage you’ve got going on with this magic thing--”

“I mean that I’ve seen him,” I say, cutting her off. “On the full moon. I’ve seen him and it’s--it’s not like what you think, it’s not Harry Potter werewolves or whatever, it’s…” I stop, thinking about Nightingale carefully circling me in the study, his cool nose hovering millimeters from my bare palm, Nightingale in human form the morning after, watching me with those wary gray eyes. 

“It’s still him,” I say eventually, too aware of how Lesley’s watching me, that it feels oddly like a betrayal to go into more detail. “He just sometimes looks like a wolf for the evening, that’s all.”

Lesley doesn’t reply for a minute, and when I look over, she’s staring down at her own half-eaten kebab, frowning. Then she shrugs with one shoulder. “I suppose it’s only to be expected that your job would get more weird over time, not less,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“At least it’s never dull,” I say, and a tension I didn’t realize I was carrying finally starts to ease up along my shoulders. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” I add, giving her a winning smile. 

Lesley huffs. “You never know what you’re doing,” she retorts, but gently bumps my arm with hers.

*

I return to the Folly at about two in the afternoon, and troop off to the general library to get some more Latin work in--my magical practice was already done this morning, and still no werelight to be found, and as I walk in, I find Nightingale at one of the small tables, frowning abstractly over my homework from the past couple of days. He doesn’t look up as I come in, and I say tentatively, “I could come back, or…”

“No, come in,” Nightingale says, clearly distracted, “We clearly need to get more practice in on these verb tenses. How was your lunch?”

“Oh, fine,” I say. 

“And how is Constable May doing?” Nightingale asks casually.

I pause at this. “Fine,” I say slowly, but my hesitation gives it away somehow--or maybe my heartbeat did something funny, I don’t know which, but Nightingale is looking up at me now. “Sorry, I just--how did you know I was out with Lesley?”

Now, normally Nightingale doesn’t have much in the way of tells. I’m getting fairly good at reading him, I think, but that doesn’t mean he’s naturally expressive, in fact he’s the living embodiment of the British cliche of ‘keeping a stiff upper lip’.

However, given that he’s a fairly pale white guy, there’s really not much room for interpretation when his skin goes brick-red from embarrassment, and his gaze immediately darts back down to the table. “Ah, that. Just certain...clues I picked up on.”

I can feel my eyebrows rising up at the vagueness of that statement, and Nightingale looks even more harassed, but he’s still meeting my gaze in that determined way of his, where he doesn’t actually want to answer the questions we both know I have, but he’ll still answer them if I push, because he thinks he owes it to me.

And part of me _does_ want to push, because I can put two and two together, I remember Nightingale mentioning his strong sense of smell even in human form, and I remember how closely Lesley and I were sitting together on that park bench just an hour ago, and the only explanation is that somehow he’s able to, to _smell_ Lesley on me and on my clothes, and Jesus, how does that even _work_ , how strong is his sense of smell, has anyone ever tested--

But asking that would be a huge mistake, I know that just as well, and I don’t need to remember Dr. Walid’s gentle warnings about being careful and taking my time to think twice. 

All I need to do is remember the day I went wandering around the Folly, and discovered the cage down by the wine cellar, the thick iron bars and heavy padlock, the deep scratches in the hardwood floor, old clawmarks telling a tale that I didn’t like to think about at all. 

So instead of asking, instead of pushing, I exhale and I let it go. For now, anyway. “Okay,” I say simply. “And yeah, Lesley’s doing fine. Seawoll’s pushing her hard, but it’s Lesley, she wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I take advantage of the vaguely surprised look on Nightingale’s face to take a seat opposite him at the table, and I say, with more enthusiasm than I feel because honestly, would it have killed anyone to translate more of these books into English, “So what am I getting wrong with the tenses?”

Nightingale blinks, coming back to himself, and looks down at my scribbled homework again. “Right, if you’ll look at this part here…”

As I look, and as I listen, I can’t help but notice that the color on his cheeks and neck is fading away, even if his ears are still a bit pink. Comes with the territory, I expect--but then a lot of things do. Like a boss who can hear my heartbeat and can tell who I’ve been near with just a quick sniff of his nose, or a housekeeper that’s definitely not all human, or even a dog that’s also a magic detector.

I’m not complaining. I signed up for all of it, and like I told Lesley just this afternoon, I can _handle_ it--but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to better understand it all. 

But as I follow Nightingale’s slim fingers as he’s going over Latin grammar with me again, his nails neatly trimmed, an already-healing papercut on the index finger, I know that like the Latin, and the magic, that it’ll all come with time.


	4. company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During Peter’s first few weeks in the Folly, Thomas has a hard time sleeping at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for this chapter, we not only have Nightingale's POV, but also the beginnings of an actual _plot_. I know, I'm shocked too.

During Peter’s first few weeks in the Folly, Thomas has a hard time sleeping at night. 

It’s not nightmares, and it’s not worrying over having Peter as an apprentice--Peter is shockingly well-suited for the position in just about every respect, not that Thomas will inflate his ego by saying so.

It’s just the jarring feeling of having someone else in the Folly, of Thomas lying in his bed at night and hearing, for the first time in decades, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat that isn’t Molly’s. Or his own. It’s not an unpleasant sound, just… _new_. New enough to be startling, to have his… _instincts_ flare up in suspicion, because right when he’s on the verge of falling asleep himself, his ears will prick up and he’ll hear Peter breathing downstairs, or shifting in his sleep, and he’ll be awake and alert once more. 

And like clockwork, Thomas’s hearing picks up Peter’s heartbeat yet again, the steady slow rhythm of a man currently sleeping without nightmares. 

Thomas turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. This won’t do. Much more of this, and he’ll come downstairs for breakfast with dark circles under his eyes, and Molly will glare. 

This is like any other background noise, after all. He’d learned how to control this, in those awful first months after the change, he’d learned, painfully and slowly, how to tune out background noises, how not to start at the sound of a car backfiring three blocks away, how to not get distracted listening to a mouse scurrying in the kitchen. 

This is no different. Except that he has literally decades of experience behind him. At least this time, he _knows_ it can be done. 

Down on the second floor, Peter’s breathing is deep and slow and even, and the steadiness of it is almost relaxing, like the rustle of Molly’s skirts when she moves about in the kitchen.

Peter’s been sleeping well, these past few weeks. It’s the sort of casual breach of privacy Thomas is unable to keep himself from committing, and absolutely nothing he’d ever dream of discussing with anyone, Peter included, but it’s true--Peter has been sleeping well, a sign that perhaps he’s settling in nicely at the Folly.

 _He’ll be a good fit,_ Abdul had said. _It’ll be good for you._

Thomas had brushed that off with a general comment about how it was past time the Folly had an apprentice again, but he’d known what Abdul had meant all the same. 

Thomas’s eyelids have been growing heavier these past few minutes, and he realizes with a faint jolt that without meaning to, he’s matched his breathing to Peter’s, until they’re perfectly in sync. 

Perhaps he should stop it, but...he’s just so damned tired. It’s another strange, peculiar sort of intimacy that he can’t help but Thomas somehow has the idea that if Peter knew--though Thomas’ll be damned before he tells him--but he thinks that if Peter did somehow know, he wouldn’t mind.

It could be worse, he supposes, drowsily. Three weeks in, and at least Thomas is sure that Peter doesn’t snore. 

*

The drive up to the court of Father Thames is a pleasant one. Peter’s good company on the drive up, not chattering away or incessantly fiddling with the radio. He does spend most of their breakfast at the transport cafe attempting to get details out of Thomas about Father Thames, but he gives in with good grace when Thomas puts him off--he wants to have Peter going into there with an open mind, a fresh perspective. 

As Peter settles in with his cup of coffee, Thomas becomes aware of one of the other customers looking at them, even with his back turned, Thomas can tell every time she turns her head their way, her hair brushing against her collar, the subtle quickening of her heartbeat and breathing. 

Peter glances behind Thomas, and he gives an unthinking, politely vague smile, the kind you give when you accidentally catch a stranger’s eye. 

Or perhaps not that accidentally, Thomas thinks, as the woman’s heartbeat picks up at the sight of Peter’s smile, dimples appearing in his cheeks. 

Thomas keeps quiet, and Peter doesn’t notice her interest, finishing up his cup of coffee. “Are you ready to head out?” Thomas asks politely as Peter sets his empty cup down, and Peter nods. 

“Yeah, definitely,” he says, and Thomas lifts up his hand to signal for the check. 

*

It’s been over half a century since Thomas has found himself truly comfortable in large crowds. He can control himself now, obviously, but it takes effort, and the memory of what it _used_ to be like...well. 

And so it is when they arrive at the funfair at Trewsbury Mead, Thomas pausing for just a moment as he gets out of the car, bracing himself, remembering a time when the noises and the smells and the sight of all those people would come crashing down on his head like a huge wave, drowning out all sense of himself. 

It’s been decades since that happened, and Thomas has far better control of himself now. 

Peter is looking out towards the fair, and if he’s noticed Thomas’ brief pause he gives no sign. 

“Come on then,” Thomas says lightly. “Off we go.”

Thomas isn’t so naive to think that news of his taking an apprentice hadn’t already travelled out of London by now, but even he isn’t quite prepared for the searching gaze Father Thames gives Peter when they reach him at last. Thomas steps forward and takes the lead, as he should, following the same steps he’s followed in the same conversation since 1914. 

And so he leans against the fence with Father Thames and laughs in the right places as Father Thames talks about groundwater overdrafts, and all the while Thomas keeps an ear out for Peter’s breathing, for his heartbeat, hearing him shift his weight to one foot, hesitant, not sure what to do next--and, just as Thomas had expected, Oxley appears at just the right moment to whisk Peter off, talking of introducing Peter to his wife Isis all the while. 

Father Thames doesn’t quite pause mid-conversation as his son walks off with Thomas’s apprentice, but he does give them a long, searching look as they walk off, and then he catches Thomas’s eye and is back to playing the roguish charmer once more, giving Thomas a cheerful grin. 

Thomas has known him--and his sons--for far too long to fall for it, but he smiles back, doing the Old Man the courtesy of playing along, all too aware that while he and Father Thames are talking, it will be Peter and Oxley getting to the heart of the matter today. 

Except that Father Thames has his own plans for how their conversation will go, it seems. During a brief lull, as they watch a group of shrieking children run past, with painted faces and balloons held tight in their small fists, Father Thames says abruptly, “Interesting choice of apprentice you’ve made.”

Thomas knows that could be read in any manner of ways--a reference to Peter’s race, his class, his youth--whatever it is, Thomas replies in as blandly easy a tone as possible. “He’s settling in well.”

The sharp gaze Father Thames is fixing him with doesn’t lessen. “Brought him up here to get his feet wet, that it?”

“Something like that,” Thomas allows. “Only proper to give a face to face introduction.”

Father Thames is pleased by that, but adds, “And you’ve already introduced him to the Lady and her daughters, I take it?”

“I have,” Thomas confirms. 

Father Thames grunts at this, and Thomas wonders--with no little surprise--if he’ll actually address the conflict between himself and Mother Thames, but when Father Thames speaks again, it’s in a different direction entirely. 

And a far less welcome one.

“And have you introduced him to the other werewolves in London yet?”

Thomas breathes out, slow and careful. Father Thames is still watching, and a show of temper, or any sign that he’s taken offense, would be a mistake. “As of yet, no.” He gives Father Thames an easy smile. “But Galbraith and his pack are free to stop by the Folly, should they be curious.”

Father Thames snorts at this-- he knows perfectly well that none of them will ever come to the Folly, and that Thomas wouldn’t let them through the door if they did. 

“Fair enough,” is all that Father Thames says, and even though he pairs his response with another shrewd look, Thomas will be satisfied with it.

*

It’s approaching late afternoon by the time that Thomas goes to fetch his apprentice, and despite not actually being told the location of Oxley and Isis’s caravan, it’s the work of minutes to track--to _find_ Peter, his heartbeat and scent combining to form a trail that Thomas could follow with his eyes closed, even in the middle of a crowd such as this.

At the caravan, Peter is sitting outside companionably with Oxley and Isis, looking completely at ease; he looks up as Thomas approaches and smiles, calling out, “Hello, sir.”

“Hello,” Thomas says, and smiles back.

The drive home is as easy as the drive up, once the glamour finally wears off. Peter tells Thomas about his meeting with Oxley, and Thomas finds few surprises there, but he does find himself impressed by Peter’s insight. 

“Now that you’ve met them both,” he asks, referring to both Father and Mother Thames, “what do you think?”

Peter’s forehead momentarily creases in thought. “They both have genuine power,” he says at last. “But it feels different. Hers is definitely from the sea, from the port and all that. His is all from the earth and the weather and leprechauns and crystals, for all I know.”

Thomas smiles at that last flourish, but the observation is pertinent. And possibly useful. They toss it back and forth for a bit, the differences between the two courts, Peter pointing out that Father Thames might not really want to take back control of London, that he just wanted respect. 

“‘Perhaps he would be content with a ceremony,” Thomas muses. ‘An oath of fealty, perhaps.”

“Which is what?” Peter asks, and when Thomas explains, he has the pleasure of Peter staring at him in surprise and alarm, eyebrows rising up halfway to his forehead. 

“Mediaeval is what it would get if you tried to make Mama Thames swear loyalty and service to anyone. Let alone Father Thames,” Peter tells him, very firmly, and Thomas blinks. 

“Are you sure?” he tests out, doubtful. “It’d be purely symbolic.”

Peter’s disbelieving look only grows worse. “Symbolic just makes it worse. She’d see it as a loss of face.” As Peter goes on, Thomas begins to see it--or more to the point, he starts to see what Tyburn’s face would be, if he were to go to her and request that she swear fealty to Father Thames.

He can’t quite make himself picture Mama Thames’ face, which is probably for the best. 

“Pity we can’t marry them off,” Thomas says, and Peter breaks out into laughter at that, and Thomas laughs with him.

He’s struck, and not for the first time, at the strange novelty of this, having someone to consult with, someone to laugh at his jokes and to tell Thomas when he’s missed something important. There’s Molly, of course, and Abdul, and even Frank Caffrey, but--it’s different here with Peter. 

“So what did you and the Old Man talk about?” Peter asks next, casually. 

_And have you introduced him to the other werewolves in London yet?_

Thomas pauses before answering. “My contribution to the conversation was cursory at best,” he hedges, and before he can stop himself, or think better of his decision, he leads Peter aside with a description of Father Thames’ preoccupation with things like groundwater overdrafts, aquifer delay cycles and aggregate catchment-area coefficients.

It’s not a lie, obviously. There are things he can’t tell Peter yet, things he has to protect and shield Peter from. It’d be irresponsible, really, to drop everything on top of his shoulders, so early in his apprenticeship. 

All perfectly accurate, and yet Thomas knows that if Peter had the ability to hear his heartbeat, Peter would hear that it’s beating just a little too fast, that it would give him away immediately. 

*

“He’s not wrong,” Abdul tells Thomas three days later at dinner, once they’ve all got a chance to breathe in the aftermath of the latest murder investigation. Three bodies and no actual suspects, not even the hint of a motive, just violence and death and blood. 

The two of them have gone out for Chinese, and Thomas deliberately picks up his chopsticks and starts to eat, not responding. 

It doesn’t work on Abdul of course, he’s known Thomas too long for that. “Father Thames isn’t wrong to ask you about when you’ll introduce Peter to the others.”

“It’s too early,” Thomas says. “There’s time enough for that later on.” 

“Weren’t you the one talking about how he’s already a year ahead of where he should be with the concepts of magical theory?” Abdul asks, and Thomas keeps himself from frowning, but only just. “I understand not wanting to undertake an actual introduction at this stage, but surely just _telling_ him--”

“It’s a complication,” Thomas says. “A complication that neither of us needs right now.”

Abdul sits back in his seat, and looks at Thomas with mingled exasperation and sympathy. “Thomas. Do you honestly think it’s beyond Galbraith, or Tucker, or any of them to simply walk up to Peter one day out in the street and demand an introduction?”

Thomas goes rigid in his seat. “They wouldn’t dare,” he snaps out. Abdul just raises an eyebrow at him, and Thomas demands, “Have you heard anything to suggest--”

“Of course not,” Abdul says gently, but with real warmth behind it. “But you’ve told me yourself, people are curious about Peter. And if you think Galbraith’s stopped keeping an eye on you--”

“It’s none of his damned concern,” Thomas says, frustrated. “The Folly is my affair, Peter is my apprentice, and James Galbraith can go _hang_.”

Abdul looks at him, and the sympathy is obvious now. “You’ve been saying that for decades,” he says gently. “It hasn’t stopped Galbraith yet.”

“But it’s kept him far away, which is what counts,” Thomas says, and picks up a piece of shrimp. He keeps his eyes down as he eats, knowing that Abdul is watching him, but after a minute Abdul sighs faintly and starts working at his own dish, and the conversation is put aside for now.

“The full moons have been going well for you lately, I take it?” Abdul says, while they’re contemplating the dessert menu. 

Thomas thinks of Toby faithfully following him around the dark corridors of the Folly, excited and unafraid, of the warmth of Molly’s kitchens and the rustle of her skirts as she moves about, Peter’s steady voice as he reads aloud from the latest book that Molly’s picked out for them all. He thinks of what it's like, walking through the dark corridors of the Folly, knowing all the while that they're waiting for him, that he can turn back and find them any time he pleases.

“Yes,” Thomas says. “They have, actually.”


	5. the shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Keep breathing," I murmur, starting to hear the sirens coming closer. “It’s a bad habit to break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, we have plot! And a surprise crossover. As always, if you have any questions, feel free to ask in the comments or on my tumblr.

“You sure you can track him?” I ask Nightingale as we lurk outside on Bow Street at midnight, waiting by the Royal Opera House to catch our murderous ghostly suspect Henry Pyke at last. 

Nightingale gives me a look, and if I wasn’t already looking like an idiot, thanks to the stupid helmet on my head, I’d clap a hand to my forehead. What a question to ask a werewolf. “Right, stupid question.”

Nightingale’s mouth curls up a little at the ends. “You do your bit, and I’ll do mine.”

But as it turns out, neither one of us gets to do our bit, because as I'm adjusting my helmet, I turn around just in time to see a middle-aged white man shoot Nightingale in the back with a gun. 

The sound is all wrong for a handgun, more of a whistle than a sharp crack, and it takes me a second to spot the dart sticking out of the back of Nightingale's neck. Nightingale drops to his knees, gasping with pain, and the assailant winks at me and says softly, "That's the way to do it."

In the chaos afterwards of me taking down the assailant with _impello_ and me blowing on my whistle for help, I manage to keep my wits together just enough to yank the dart out of Nightingale's neck. The entry wound already looks awful, veins livid and discolored, a trickle of blood oozing down and staining the collar of Nightingale's shirt. Nightingale's already fallen unconscious, his breathing labored and when I frantically start feeling for his pulse, it's thready, weak. 

"Keep breathing," I murmur, starting to hear the sirens coming closer. “It’s a bad habit to break.”

It’s the strangest feeling in the world, knowing that for once Nightingale’s not listening. 

*

Between the hours-long interview with Seawoll and Stephanopoulos and then Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom, the hammer coming down right on top of my head, and then coming home to the Folly only to find I’d been locked _out_ of the Folly, and then the showdown with Tyburn, I don’t get to visit Nightingale for hours and hours.

Dr. Walid meets me outside Nightingale’s room, which is being guarded by an armed officer. “I want you to be prepared,” he says in a low voice, and explains to me that Nightingale’s been intubated and is running a high fever, that he’s still not out of the woods yet. 

“Jesus,” I say. “What the hell was in that dart?”

Dr. Walid looks at me, startled. “Didn’t they tell you?” he asks. I shake my head and he lets out a huff of breath. 

“It was wolfsbane,” he explains. “Or monkshood or aconite, whichever name you prefer for it--but it was a strong solution, designed to kill.” He sighs heavily. “You did good work, getting the dart out of him so fast, but with a poison that strong…”

I swallow twice before I speak. “Is it...are the stories true, then? That it can kill werewolves?”

Dr. Walid nods. “It’s a good sign that he’s survived this long,” he says gently. “You should go in and see him.”

I nod, trying to look as confident as I can, and yet my palm is sweaty as I turn the doorknob and let myself in. 

For a second, all I can see are the breathing tubes, all I can hear is the hissing of the machines that are helping Nightingale breathe--and then other details start to sink in, more subtle but equally awful in their way. How gray his skin looks, how many wires and tubes are hooked up to his arms, how unnatural it is to see him so still and vulnerable. 

I feel slow and stupid as I approach the bed, exhaustion clouding my mind until I feel like my brain is wrapped in cotton. I hesitate, but in the end it feels natural, easy, to take his hand in mine--his skin is hot and dry to the touch, and I find my thumb rubbing along his knuckles. 

“Come on, sir,” I say softly, after checking to make sure nobody’s around to listen. “Getting beaten by wolfsbane? That’s just...a fucking cliche right there.”

He doesn’t answer, obviously. I drag the uncomfortable armchair closer to the bed, and collapse into it, not letting go of Nightingale’s hand as I do. My eyelids are heavy, and I drop off into sleep within thirty seconds flat, if it even takes that long. 

When I eventually wake up, I lurch upright, a crick in my neck as I look around dumbly, not sure what’s startled me awake. The sound of the machines are the same, Nightingale looks the same, but still--

I look to the door, and there’s a middle-aged white man standing there in the doorway, thin and gray-haired, watching me with a sharp look in his thin face. I scrub at my face with my free hand--I’m still loosely holding Nightingale’s hand in mine, and I should let go, but as I look at this man and try to figure out what’s setting my brain off, somehow I find my grip on Nightingale’s hand tightening. 

I’m very sleep deprived still, which is the only defense I have for why it takes me so long to figure out what I’m sensing from him, but when I do, I gape at him, speechless. “Jesus, what…”

The man cocks an eyebrow and says, his accent Scottish and his tone sardonic, “Now don’t tell me Nightingale had you thinking that he was the only werewolf in London.”

I’m too surprised to speak, and then I hear hurried footsteps approaching, and the man turns around just as Dr. Walid appears, exasperatedly asking, “Malcolm, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

“Introducing myself to the Nightingale’s apprentice,” the man says coolly, stepping into the room, and the vestigia I sense from him is even stronger now, burnt coffee, cold sweat sliding down my spine, and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. It’s nothing like the vestigia I get from Nightingale, not ever, but somehow still when I look at him I know, I just _know_ I’m looking at another werewolf.

The man smiles like he knows exactly what I’m thinking right now, and finds it to be hilarious. “Malcolm Tucker. Nice to finally meet you, Constable Peter Grant.”

As I stare at them both, Dr. Walid sighs and mutters to himself, “For fuck’s sake, I _warned_ Thomas this would happen.”

Tucker casually shrugs and says, “The bastard’s got a habit of ignoring warnings, I wouldn’t fret yourself over it.”

“Oh, now don’t start--”

“Sorry,” I say over them both, my voice louder than I mean it to be, “--but what exactly is going on here?”

*

What’s happening, it turns out, is that I’ve stepped into the middle of a feud that’s been going for over sixty years. 

Dr. Walid’s hustled us all into his office, which is really too narrow and small for the three of us. He’s managed to doctor me up a cup of coffee, which I quickly sip while eyeing up Malcolm Tucker. The name sounded familiar, and as I drink my coffee I remember that he used to be some bigwig in the Labour party before they went out of power. There was some sort of scandal between him and an MP….

Tucker catches me watching him, and gives me another one of those sharp little grins. “Don’t worry son, you can Google me later,” he offers. 

I look at him squarely. “I’m police, we don’t need Google.”

Tucker’s grin grows wider. “He is feisty, isn’t he?” he asks Dr. Walid over his shoulder, and then turns back to me. “No wonder Cecelia hates your guts.”

Dr. Walid sits down behind his desk and gives Tucker an unimpressed look. “Are you done showing off yet?” he asks. Without waiting for Tucker to respond, he says, exasperation still clear in his voice, “Peter, this is Malcolm Tucker, former Director of Communications for the Labour Party, current PR guru for the rich and famous and criminally stupid.”

“Let’s be fair,” Tucker says, sitting back in his seat, “I was already working for the criminally stupid in my last job as well.”

“And,” Dr. Walid continues, “he’s also a werewolf, as you can see.”

“Yeah, I got that part of it,” I say, looking at the both of them. What with the smug look on Tucker’s face and Dr. Walid’s barely concealed worry--not to mention the river of shit I’m already having to wade through--the last thing I want to do is expose my own ignorance of what’s going on here. But I have to, so I do. “So what exactly is the story here?”

Tucker opens his mouth, but thankfully Dr. Walid speaks first. “Malcolm here is the second-in-command for Robert Galbraith, who is the leader of all the werewolf packs in London.”

I really don’t have any excuse I can give for how I blurt out, shocked, “Wait, how many werewolves--” I stop myself, but it’s obviously too late, as Dr. Walid sighs. 

“He really hasn’t told you anything, has he,” Tucker comments, voice thoughtful, assessing, before looking at Dr. Walid and saying, in a harder tone, “And once again we’re seeing the fallout from Nightingale’s fucking _ridiculous_ pride and overconfidence--”

“Shut it, Malcolm,” Dr. Walid says sharply. “Unless you’d like me to break down, in detail, exactly how we landed in this position to start with?”

Malcolm elaborately holds his hands up, conceding, and Dr. Walid sighs once more before continuing. “There’s always been...a sort of armed detente between Thomas and the werewolf packs here in the city. As long as they’re not breaking the Queen’s peace…”

“Or disturbing Nightingale’s delusions,” Tucker mutters, and Dr. Walid glares at him. 

“As I said, Thomas prefers to keep to himself, but on occasion the two sides have...collaborated for the greater good.”

“You mean, on the rare occasions Nightingale has to admit he’s a werewolf and that he needs our collective advice and knowledge, he climbs down from his ivory mansion in Russell Square and deigns to ask his fellow wolves for some advice,” Tucker says. “Like, say, when he gets poisoned by fucking wolfsbane.”

“Did you do it?” I ask him. 

Tucker rolls his eyes, not even bothering to look offended or surprised at the question. “If I’d done it, I would’ve just left the arrogant prick to die in hospital rather than scrounging up the antidote and finding one of our own doctors to help consult on the treatment.” He turns to Dr. Walid again. “You’ll do well to listen to Jennifer, for the record.”

“I have every confidence in Dr. Vaughan’s abilities and expertise,” Dr. Walid replies. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have let her in.” He gives Tucker a thin, unamused smile. 

Tucker hmphs, and then says to me, “As I said, I’ve got nothing to do with this. No, this fucking disaster is all to do with you lot. Though if you need someone to spin it for you in the press should you get stitched up for it, drop me a line, I’ve got a junior associate or two who could cut their teeth on it.” He makes a show of looking me over. “You’ll look good on TV at least, if it gets that far.”

I stare at him stoically over Dr. Walid’s admonishments. “Are you done?” I ask. 

Tucker shrugs a little. “Yeah, for now.” He’s still giving me that assessing look, however, and he says finally, “He’ll probably make it, you know. Just so long as he gets enough time and rest, and stops trying to recreate the plot from a mediocre Bond film.”

“Anything else?” Dr. Walid prompts, when Tucker makes no move to get out of his chair, or indicate that he’s going to leave. 

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Have the lad here spend the night in Nightingale’s room, it’ll help with the recovery process.”

I blink, and Dr. Walid looks nearly as baffled. “How would that help?”

“You’re part of his pack, aren’t you?” Tucker asks me. “Well, such as it is.” 

I gape at him, speechless, and Tucker groans theatrically. “Oh, Christ. Did Nightingale honestly explain _nothing_ to you?” He sits forward in his seat and says, in a tone of exaggerated patience, staring right into my face like he can carve this knowledge on the inside of my skull, “For over five months now you’ve been sleeping in that man’s house, eating his food. Five full moons you’ve spent in his company, I’m told. By this point he knows everything about you--the way you snore, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the fall of your footsteps. He could close his eyes and find you in the middle of a packed house at Wembley Stadium without you having to breathe a word.” He leans in even further and says, “And deep down in your head, underneath all those polite silences, you know it’s happening--and you’re still there anyway.”

He sits back in his seat, taking advantage of my stunned silence to declare, with total confidence, “I don’t give a shit _what_ Nightingale calls it, that’s pack. He can try and bury his nature all he fucking likes, some things can’t be ignored forever. And it’s not going to be any sort of Folly magic or clever Latin words that’ll get him through the worst case of wolfsbane poisoning I’ve ever heard of. The strength of the wolf is the pack, and for once in his fucking life, he’s going to accept it.” Speech given, Malcolm gives me a wide smile that’s meant to unsettle. “Are we clear?”

I breathe out. “Yeah. We’re clear.”

Malcolm’s smile broadens. “Oh, you are a clever one, Oxley wasn’t wrong about that.” As I gape at him, still reeling, Malcolm gets to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket as he tosses out casually, “Do let me know if you need anything else, Abdul.”

Once he’s out the door, I lean back in my seat, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “I feel like I got hit by a bus,” I tell Dr. Walid. “And then the bus backed right up and ran me over again.”

“Yes, Malcolm does have a tendency to do that,” Dr. Walid says wearily. “When he’s not filleting people open and setting their entrails on fire.”

I lower my head to look at him. “Metaphorically, right?”

Dr. Walid lifts a shoulder. “For the most part. Believe it or not, he’s actually mellowed in the last few years.” He hesitates, and says more quietly, “I’d hoped...I’d hoped that Thomas would be able to explain himself about the, ah, _complicated_ backstory between himself and Galbraith’s pack.” 

“Is Tucker telling the truth?” I ask. “Is he really not a threat to Nightingale?”

Dr. Walid nods. “As abrasive and obnoxious as the man is, he was also honest. When I called to tell them what happened to Thomas, they offered their assistance immediately, along with Dr. Vaughan’s services. They aren’t a threat to Thomas, they never have been. They’re just--well, like I said, it’s complicated.”

I want to know more. I have to know more. Especially if Dr. Walid’s right and Tucker is telling the truth about--

But the memory of those full moon nights feels too tender to think about for now, Nightingale in wolf form lying at my feet as I read out loud, Molly pausing in her preparations for the next day to listen, Toby snuffling in his sleep. Five times now that had happened, and I’d known I was becoming part of something, but I hadn’t thought...Nightingale had never said _anything_ about…

But then Nightingale’s been quiet about a lot of things, as it turns out. 

I shake my head and say, “I have...so many questions right now.”

“I’m sure you do,” Dr. Walid says, sympathetic. 

“Is Nightingale safe here?” I ask. 

“This is the safest place in all of London for him right now,” Dr. Walid assures me. “If nothing else, I’m fairly sure Malcolm and Galbraith would take it as a personal insult if someone were to try and attack Thomas again, when they’ve already put in resources to help keep him alive.”

“Good,” I say heavily. “That’s one less issue to deal with for the moment.” One less issue out of a thousand, and the weight of them all feels like it’s going to crush me--dealing with Henry Pike and the likely traitor within the Met, dealing with Tyburn locking me out of the Folly, and somehow save the tattered remains of my own career in the process. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

Dr. Walid’s watching me process all of this, and he says after a moment, “Peter. Take a shower, eat some food, have a second to catch your breath. And then figure out what you’re going to do next.”

“Aside from job hunting?”

Dr. Walid just raises an eyebrow. “Peter.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m working the problem, trust me.”

“Good lad,” Dr. Walid says, and leads me in the direction of the shower.


	6. the aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the quiet of the room, I can feel the events of tonight threatening to crash down on top of my head--Lesley’s ruined face stretched out in that awful crescent-moon caricature, her familiar voice rising up into that awful shriek, the crowd chasing me down, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom hopped up on magic and trying to bash my head in. 
> 
> “So tonight was pretty much a disaster,” I admit shakily.

It’s not often that I can shock my mother into silence, but the way I look when I walk in through her front door--the stench of smoke lingering in my clothes, my hair, the exhausted slump of my shoulders, or just the fact that I’d dropped in on my parents unannounced in the evening--it all has her staring at me, eyes wide and her mouth pursed. She’s dressed up to go out and so’s my dad--so they must be getting ready for a party or a wedding being held for one of my many, many relatives. 

My dad is the first to break the silence. “What on earth happened to you?”

“Long story,” I try, but of course my mum’s no fool. She looks at me, then looks at the TV, which might be on mute but is still on like always, and after a night like tonight, there’s only one thing on the news. 

My mother stares at the footage of middle-class white women throwing bricks at the police, opera singers in full costume breaking windows, the shops on fire--and then looks back at me. “Were you in the middle of _that_?” she demands, and I wince. 

My dad lets out a low whistle as he shuffles over to look at the television. “Jesus,” he says, looking over at me. “You’re all right then?”

“I’m fine, I promise,” I say hastily, even as my mother marches over to me and grabs me by the shoulders to look me over for any injuries, tutting at the smell of smoke. “Just stopped by for some clean clothes.”

“Have you not been doing your laundry?” my mother asks, momentarily diverted, and I squirm away to head in the direction of my old room, where I’m sure there’s something that’ll still fit me in all the packed boxes my mother has ready to ship to Sierra Leone at any moment. 

Of course, my mother doesn’t leave it there. She hovers in the doorway as I search through the boxes, and asks, “Peter, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, I’m all right, I promise,” I say over my shoulder, praying she’ll leave it alone. 

“Then why are there bruises around your neck?” she presses, and like an idiot, I slap a hand to my throat, and when I realize I’ve definitely given the game away, I look to her with panic. 

My mother has a grim look on her face that I only recognize from when I bombed my A-levels, or when my dad was especially “sick”. “Peter. Come over here and tell me what’s going on.”

Fuck, I’m in for it now. “I’m okay,” I say, quickly going over to her. “I promise--I was on duty earlier tonight and things got a little hairy down at Covent Garden, sure, but look at me, I’m _fine_. I just needed some clean clothes and your place was on the way.”

“On the way to where?” she asks, not letting up. “And have you been checked by a doctor--what if you have smoke inhalation?”

“I don’t have smoke inhalation,” I say. 

“And how would you know if you haven’t seen a doctor?” she insists, with an air of irrefutable logic. 

Growing up as a kid, I’d always known my mother had a gift for interrogation, but it’s nothing compared to now, when I’m an actual adult and a trained officer of the law and have witnessed (and conducted) _actual_ interrogations that still have nothing on my mother’s grilling. 

My dad gives me a sympathetic look, and says, “I’ll just call Tito and tell him we’ll be running a little late then, eh?”

“No, there’s no need,” I start, right as my mum answers, “Yes, go do that.” She gives me a quelling look, and I barely stifle a groan. There’s no arguing with my mother when she looks like that, I’m definitely not getting out of here any time soon.

*

It’s well past visiting hours when I finally make it to UCH, freshly showered, wearing the clean clothes my mother had scrounged up for me, and smelling faintly of cocoa butter--my mother had insisted, tutting at my dry elbows--but Dr. Walid must have spoken to the nurses, because I get through to Nightingale’s room with no fuss. Which is excellent, because by now I’m nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion, shuffling into Nightingale’s private room on legs that feel heavier than lead. 

The room is dark, but there’s enough light for me to make out Nightingale’s motionless form, his still face.

It had taken a lot of fast talking to get past my mother earlier, she hadn’t understood why I wouldn’t just spend the night at their flat. I’d wriggled free eventually, despite the lure of sleeping in an actual bed, somewhere I felt safe—but I’d made a commitment to come back to UCH, because Nightingale was here, and because I was part of his pack. Maybe. According to a stranger that Nightingale had deliberately kept me away from.

Someone--I have to assume Dr. Walid--has set up a tiny cot for me in a corner of the room where I’m unlikely to get in the way, but there’s still the chair by Nightingale’s bed, and that’s where I go first. I collapse into the chair by his bed, at that stage of exhaustion where I’m not sure how I’m actually going to sleep. 

In the quiet of the room, I can feel the events of tonight threatening to crash down on top of my head--Lesley’s ruined face stretched out in that awful crescent-moon caricature, her familiar voice rising up into that awful shriek, the crowd chasing me down, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom hopped up on magic and trying to bash my head in. 

“So tonight was pretty much a disaster,” I admit shakily. And then I think of the German family and Beverley putting out the fire, and I concede, “But not as bad as it could’ve been. Definitely not going to be allowed anywhere near Covent Garden for a while, though.”

There’s nothing but silence to answer me, but I can still smell pine and canvas and it makes me think of drowsing in the cot in Molly’s kitchen on full moon nights, Nightingale quietly prowling about to the rhythmic thud of Molly’s knife on the cutting board, and I wish—

Without quite meaning to, I reach out and touch the back of my hand to Nightingale’s forehead, the way you do when someone’s ill with a bad bout of flu. His skin feels as hot to the touch as it did before, hotter even, and I drop my hand away, worry burrowing a pit in my stomach. 

“I met Malcolm Tucker earlier,” I say quietly. “That was...enlightening.” I feel the questions hovering on the tip of my tongue, everything I want to ask right there waiting to be said aloud--but I keep them in. 

Instead I just say, “This is only the start of it all, isn’t it.”

I don’t get a response, obviously, but I don’t need to--I already know that it’s true. 

*

At some point in my sleep, I start dreaming about Covent Garden, about running from the mob, Folsom screaming in the voice of Mr. Punch, “That’s the way to do it!” while the angry beeps of the sirens never seem to get any closer--

Wait. Beeps?

My eyes snap open in the weak early morning light, and I hear a horrible choking noise. I lift my head off my thin pillow to see Nightingale on the bed, eyes open and wide with panic as he claws frantically at the tube in his throat. 

“Sir!” I yelp, and scramble out of the cot, calling out for a nurse as I unthinkingly reach out and grab at his arm, trying to stop him from hurting himself--and Nightingale’s hand whips out, so fast that I can’t even see it, to hold my wrist in a bruising grip, his bloodshot eyes staring right at me, glowing in the dark. 

Literally glowing, by the way. 

My heartbeat’s hammering in my ears, but I still manage to get out, soothing, “It’s all right, sir, it’s--”

But then the nurses come in, barking at me to get out of the way, and I move to do just that except Nightingale holds on even harder, glaring at me, and I can practically _hear_ him telling me to stay put, even as his face goes redder as he chokes around the tube. 

“Sir, _please_ calm down,” I beg as the nurses circle around us trying to stabilize him. “They’ve got to get that tube out of your throat, you just have to let them try.”

Miraculously, that’s what does the trick--Nightingale’s grip eases just a little bit, his color improving as he stops struggling quite so hard, that unearthly glow leeching away from his eyes. I don’t move an inch, and I don’t look away, feeling Nightingale’s fingers pressing against the pulse point in my wrist, his nails just that little bit longer, sharper than usual. Just that little bit closer to transforming into claws.

Finally, as the nurses finish extubating Nightingale and he’s breathing on his own again, color returning back to normal, Dr. Walid rushes in and officially kicks me out so they can properly look Nightingale over. As I reluctantly head out the door, I hear Dr. Walid saying to Nightingale, “Don’t look at me like that, he’s right outside, it’s not like anything will happen to him here.”

*

“Is he okay?” I demand the second that Dr. Walid leaves the room. 

“He’ll be fine,” Dr. Walid tells me. “He’s still recovering, but he’s asked to speak to you--don’t keep him up too long, all right? He still needs rest, no matter what he might think.” He pauses and adds, “It’s still a remarkable recovery, even by Thomas’ standards.”

“You don’t think what Malcolm said about—“ I start, and Dr. Walid gives me a look.

“It’s hardly the sort of thing I’ve been able to test in the past. Thomas...well.” He doesn’t add anything else, and in that silence I hear everything he’s not telling me, all the weight of the things I don’t understand yet. 

“You should go in, he’s waiting for you,” Dr. Walid tells me, and I nod quickly, and slip into the room.

In the morning light, for all that Dr. Walid has just said, Nightingale still looks utterly awful--pale, a thin sheen of sweat along his forehead, and his hair rumpled--but he opens his eyes the second that I walk into the room. “Peter,” he says faintly, his voice hoarse. 

I sit down at the edge of the bed, biting my lip against all the questions in my head. Nightingale looks me over, his eyes half-lidded, and just as I’m about to speak he whispers, “You’re calmer now, I see.”

“I--” And then I remember the nightmare I’d had, and Nightingale coming out of sedation at exactly the same moment, and instead of asking him if he’s all right, or reassuring him that I’m fine, I blurt out, stunned, “Oh my God, I really _am_ in your pack.”

Nightingale blinks at me, and then starts wheezing--I’m about to yell for a nurse again when I realize it’s laughter. “Did...Abdul tell you?”

“Er,” I say. “Actually it was Malcolm Tucker.”

The wheezing laughter stops, and Nightingale lets out a low huff of disgust, nostrils flaring. If I hadn’t already gathered that there was no love lost between Nightingale and Malcolm Tucker, that right there would settle it. 

“You...are my apprentice,” Nightingale says in a low murmur, his jaw working. “The rest is…” He lifts his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Not for you to worry over.”

Somehow I suspect that both Malcolm Tucker and Dr. Walid would disagree with that, but I don’t argue, not now. 

“You look better,” I say. My hand twitches up automatically to feel if he’s still burning up from fever like before, but I remember myself in time--my maybe-pack status aside, he’s my _boss_ , that would just be weird now that he’s awake. 

Nightingale hums. “Being shot with wolfsbane is...actually worse than being shot with a bullet,” he observes, and I blink. He doesn’t talk a lot about his service in the Second World War, aside from explaining to me, months ago, that he’d been bitten while in battle and that, oh right, he’s over a hundred years old. 

Nightingale’s closed his eyes, and for a moment I worry I’ve tired him out--but then he opens his eyes again and focuses on me, his gaze surprisingly clear given everything. “Tell me what’s happened.”

And so I do--I go over Lesley, the riot, me being locked out of the Folly--and then I take a breath and say, “I have an idea of how to find him, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

I’m right--Nightingale doesn’t like the thought of me getting Molly to help me find Henry Pike, and as he goes into detail as to what the procedure would mean, I don’t like the thought of it either. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters because it has to be done, and I’m the one who has to do it. 

Epilogue:

Two days before he’ll finally be discharged from UCH, Thomas is sitting up in bed, attempting the crossword in the Telegraph, and waiting for two visitors--one welcome, the other very much not. 

He’s still staring at the clue for seven across when Malcolm Tucker walks into his hospital room, footsteps quiet and that ever-present smirk on his face. 

Thomas keeps his face impassive as he lifts his head--although it doesn’t matter, of course. Malcolm can hear every beat of Thomas’s heart, can sense the shift in his breathing, can read the thousand small tells that give away Thomas’s true feelings. Thomas can do the same to him as well, of course, but that doesn’t make up for the feeling of...being exposed. “Malcolm. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just peachy-fucking-keen,” Malcolm drawls, stepping inside and going right away for the chair by Thomas’s bed, crossing his legs as though he plans for all the world to stay for a while. His heartbeat is infuriatingly even. 

For just one moment, Thomas wishes he could follow the advice he’d tried to give to Abdul earlier, when it became clear that Malcolm--and through Malcolm, Robert Galbraith--was still taking a close interest in Thomas’ recovery. 

Of course, Abdul had just laughed at him. “Thomas, I’m not going to tell the man with a direct line to every tabloid editor in the country to fuck off. If you want to chase Malcolm off, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

Not, of course, that Thomas can do that now--not when he’s alive thanks to the knowledge and resources of Malcolm and the Galbraith pack. 

And of course, Malcolm knows that full well, looking Thomas over and saying, casually, “Well, you don’t look half-dead anymore, this is an improvement.”

“Yes, I like to think so,” Thomas says, as blandly as he can manage. Malcolm just looks at him, waiting, and Thomas exhales and says the part that has to be said. “Thank you for your assistance in my recovery--it’s appreciated, I assure you.”

Trust Malcolm not to take a victory with grace. “That’ll be a first from you,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Appreciation.”

Thomas can feel the flush rising up to his skin, along the back of his neck and in the tips of his ears, but he keeps his voice even and calm. “Was there something in particular you wanted, Malcolm?”

“Thought I’d come by, get another look at that apprentice of yours,” Malcolm says casually, and yet his gaze is sharp, assessing. “Interesting pack member you’ve got there.”

“So I’ve been told,” Thomas says, his voice getting sharper despite his best efforts. “And Peter is my _apprentice_.”

“Don’t give me that tired bullshit,” Malcolm retorts immediately. “You’re not fucking human, no matter what you like to pretend.” He gestures at Thomas in his hospital bed and asks, “You still haven’t learned that yet?”

Thomas grits his teeth, and just as he’s about to launch into a retort--he gets distracted by the sound of a very familiar heartbeat. 

Because of course Peter’s already at UCH, he’s on the same floor visiting Lesley May, still in her induced coma. Close enough for Thomas to hear his heartbeat, steady and even as ever, to catch a hint of his scent in the air--

He’ll be coming to Thomas’ room next, to discuss their latest case, the arrangement struck between Mother Thames and Father Thames, and Thomas is so looking forward to seeing him, and he doesn’t want Malcolm Tucker there for any of it. 

So he gives Malcolm what Malcolm has been looking for since he came in--a confrontation. 

“As thankful as I am to still be breathing,” Thomas says in his driest possible tones, the very image of a public schoolboy, Oxford-educated man, everything Malcolm Tucker cheerfully holds in contempt, “I do wish to be clear--the affairs of the Folly are my business, and mine alone. That includes Peter Grant’s apprenticeship. The arrangement hasn’t changed.”

But far from bristling, Malcolm just tilts his head slowly. “You really still think that’s true, don’t you?”

Thomas looks Malcolm square in the face. “I’d tell you to try and prove me wrong,” he says, “--except we both know your remit doesn’t go that far.”

Malcolm’s smile is still on his face, but Thomas can see the sharp edges in it now. “God, you’re a fucking prick,” he says. “I’m looking forward to the day I see that smugness knocked clean out of you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Thomas says, and his gaze slides past Malcolm to the door--he can hear Peter’s footsteps getting closer now, and Thomas can feel his own heartbeat doing...something, whether it’s the anticipation of Peter’s visit or the frustration over having Malcolm Tucker here to witness and infer...whatever he’s going to about Peter, about Thomas’s mentorship--

And Malcolm can read all of that from Thomas, and the smirk on his face only proves it. 

Peter’s eyes widen as he opens the door and sees both of them there, watching the door silently, his face an open book--not that it matters, when you can hear his heartbeat picking up just that little bit. 

“Everything all right, sir?” Peter asks, and he keeps his tone completely normal as he says it, but something in the way he sets his shoulders makes it clear he’s perfectly willing to step in if Thomas were to say no, it isn’t. 

It's...startling somehow, seeing that. Realizing that Peter is prepared to act as backup should Thomas need it.

"It's quite all right, Peter," Thomas says smoothly. "Malcolm was just leaving, in fact."

"Apparently I am," Malcolm says sarcastically, getting to his feet. He pulls a card out of seemingly thin air and slips it into the breast pocket of Peter’s suit. He then has the nerve to pat Peter’s chest, while Thomas bristles, and Malcolm says, “Give me a call sometime--we could have some very interesting conversations, you and I.”

That’s the last straw so far as Thomas is concerned. “Enough, Malcolm,” he says, putting enough steel into his voice that Peter’s eyebrows fly up his forehead, and Malcolm half-turns in his direction, silenced but not chastened. 

“That’s me off then,” he says, with a last smirk in both their directions, and walks out of the room as quietly as he’d entered it. 

Peter turns to Thomas again, eyebrows still high on his forehead, but rather than jump straight into his questions--God knows how many of them he has now--he simply mouths silently,  
_Is he still listening?_

Thomas nods minutely--Malcolm's footsteps might be retreating at his usual walking pace, but he's still well within earshot for a werewolf. 

Peter gives Thomas a quick, assessing look, and then says, in a surprisingly natural tone of voice, "So I've got more details about that new case, sir--I’ve just come back from an interview with the victim.”

He launches straight into his tale, and even as Thomas is listening closely and wracking his brains for any similar cases through the years-- _vagina dentata_ , Abdul will simply have a field day with this one--he can’t shake that feeling of surprise, at Peter so easily following his cues, at Peter showing restraint and not asking the dozens of questions they both know he has--and that they both know he’s entitled to have the answers to. 

Such as, Thomas thinks, with a sickening feeling that starts to gather low in his stomach, what exactly is the conflict between Thomas and Malcolm, and the pack that Malcolm represents. And worse yet, why there are cages in the basement of the Folly, and what was their intended use. 

Finally, once Thomas can’t sense any sign of Malcolm’s presence in the hospital, he turns to Peter and says, abruptly, “I’m sure that--well. You must have questions.”

Peter blinks, before understanding washes over his face. “You mean about the Scotch menace?”

Thomas involuntarily lets out a snort of laughter, and Peter breaks out into a pleased grin. “I see you’ve been doing your research on Malcolm. The papers did have quite a lot of inventive monikers for him,” Thomas says, but sobers quietly. “And yes, about Malcolm and about...well. All of it.”

“Oh, I do,” Peter confirms immediately. “I’ve got an actual list back at the Folly--started it one night when I couldn’t sleep--it’s several pages long now. With subheadings and bullet points.” But then he shrugs with one shoulder, gaze not quite meeting Thomas’ now as he adds, “But I figure it can wait.”

“That’s...surprisingly patient of you,” Thomas says, slowly. 

“Yeah, well,” Peter says. “I know you’re good for it.”

“Yes,” Thomas agrees. 

“And it’s not like I can get started today,” Peter admits. “I’ve got places to be, hostages to exchange, all that.”

Despite himself, Thomas feels a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He ought to tell Peter not to say that in front of Mother Thames or, indeed, in front of Beverley Brook, but Peter’s clever enough to know that on his own. He settles for saying, “Just don’t drink anything and you’ll be fine.”

Peter smiles back at this, and it’s that smile--along with the simple fact of him sitting there, alive and healthy and safe, his heartbeat steady in Thomas’s ears--that leaves Thomas sitting back, relief washing through him like a wave. And even after Peter’s gone off to drive Beverley Brook up the river to Runnymede, the feeling lingers on, like the memory of a cool hand resting against his fevered skin.


	7. interlude: afternoon tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excellent,” Mrs. Grant says. “I’m free Saturday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear we're getting back to the plot soon, but I'm still reviewing Moon Under Soho and felt like being indulgent. Plus, the thought of Mama Grant ruthlessly interrogating everyone in the Folly was too much for me to resist.

It’s not an actual defense, but Thomas genuinely doesn’t intend to listen to Peter’s phone call until it’s too late. 

It’s his first week back from the hospital, and Thomas has managed to appease Molly by resting in the study, a cooling cup of tea by his right hand. 

His eyes are shut, and if Thomas isn’t quite napping, he certainly is drifting, the background noise of Molly working in the bathrooms upstairs, Toby following her, nearly silent on his padded feet, and Peter in his room, his heartbeat calm and his voice a soothing hum as he speaks to someone on the phone. All perfectly ordinary, everything that Thomas has missed while he was away recovering at UCH, and absolutely nothing to worry over. 

Until Peter’s heartbeat kicks up a touch, mattress springs creaking beneath his weight as he moves suddenly, and Thomas snaps to attention just in time to hear Peter say, “Wait, what? Mum, there’s no need--”

“What’s wrong with seeing where my son lives?” a woman asks crisply on the other end of the phone, her accent softened by decades of living in Britain, and Thomas realizes who it is even as he remembers that this is precisely _none_ of his business. 

But it’s too late now, his senses are focused on Peter entirely, and Peter is still talking, saying next, “You’ve never been interested in my work digs before--”

“Well I’m interested now,” Mrs. Grant says, firm. “Are you telling me it’s not allowed? Will your boss not approve?”

Despite himself, Thomas is curious to see if Peter will try and use him as an excuse, but Peter is either too honest--or too wary of his mother seeing right through a white lie--to try it, saying reluctantly, “I mean, no, I don’t think he’d mind, but--”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Grant says. “I’m free Saturday.”

Peter sighs softly. “All right, fine, just--let me check with my boss and I’ll get back to you.”

“Certainly,” Mrs. Grant says, gracious in victory, and Thomas can’t help but grin to himself. “I’ll check back tomorrow to see what he says, eh?”

Despite knowing that Peter can’t hear him, Thomas is amused enough to say out loud, “Bring her over any time you’d like.”

*

To give Peter credit, he does ask that evening if his mother can stop by the Folly. 

“I mean, is it allowed to have...non-wizard people over?” Peter asks at the dinner table, in between bites of the bangers and mash Molly has produced for them tonight. 

Thomas smiles. “You’re allowed to have guests over, Peter.”

Peter chews on that for a moment. “So if, say, I wanted to bring one of my family members over--” Thomas keeps his face impassive, but Peter gives him a sharp look before leaning back in his seat. “You already heard my phone call with my mum, didn’t you?”

Thomas is--mostly--learning to check the urge to constantly apologize to Peter for the knowledge he can’t help but glean through his senses, but he still explains in an abashed tone, “Your heartbeat picked up when you were on the phone earlier.”

Peter, as is usual, doesn’t look offended or alarmed. “You’d be sweating it too, if you were sitting through an interrogation from my mum,” he says firmly, then asks, “So it’s okay, then? If my mother comes round on Saturday afternoon?”

“Perfectly all right,” Thomas confirms. “We can have her for tea, what do you think, Molly?”

Molly, who has just come in to clear the dishes, has a look of furious concentration on her face--already plotting the menu, Thomas expects--but she nods in agreement. 

“Right, that’s settled then,” Peter says, but with a sigh of resignation.

As delicately as he can, Thomas asks, “Just how much does your mother know about your position here?”

Peter grimaces. “Not much--she knows we’re a specialist department in the Met, but that’s all. Not that she hasn’t had plenty of questions for me since the Covent Garden riots.”

“Hmm,” Thomas says. 

Peter looks around him, still with that dismayed expression, as if he’s already seeing the Folly through his mother’s eyes. “God knows what she’ll think when she comes here.”

Thomas shares a glance with Molly, her face impassive, but Peter catches it and adds hastily, “Not _that_ \--” which might not be entirely true, but it’s kind of him to say, and Thomas can already see Molly’s shoulders relaxing a little. “No, it’s just that this place is a mansion on Russell Square, with a bloody great statue of Isaac Newton up front--it’s not _normal_ , that’s all I meant.”

“Will that matter very much to her?” Thomas asks. Personally he doubts any attempts at subterfuge from Peter will work, judging by Mrs. Grant’s cheerful bulldozing earlier, but that’s for Peter to decide. 

Peter wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think so,” he concedes. “She’s been married to a jazz musician for thirty years, so I know she’s seen weirder--and it’s not as if I’ll be doing magic in front of her--but she’ll definitely have opinions.”

Thomas bites back a smile at Peter’s dark tone, and says gravely, “I’ll be prepared then.”

*

On Saturday afternoon, Peter's mother arrives twenty-five minutes early.

Peter, who'd expected her to arrive only fifteen minutes earlier than the agreed-upon time, can be heard scrambling from upstairs, muffled curses ringing in Thomas’s ears, but Thomas can already hear Molly approaching the front door, where there is a steady and unfamiliar heartbeat waiting. 

Preparing himself to smooth things over, Thomas walks from the foyer just in time to see Molly ushering in a small, middle-aged woman who is staring at Molly with raised eyebrows, Molly watching her right back, posture as ramrod-straight as Thomas has ever seen it. Mrs. Grant is carrying plastic containers full of food, and Thomas can smell the spices wafting from it as she hands the containers off to Molly.

And then Mrs. Grant turns her attention to Thomas, eyebrows flicking up even higher, and Thomas pauses, startled--not just by the physical resemblance to Peter, but the expression on her face, which is one he's seen on Peter countless times before, alert and questioning.

This should be interesting, Thomas thinks, and holds out his hand, smiling faintly in welcome. "You must be Peter's mother." 

"Yes, I am," Mrs. Grant says, her voice crisp as she takes Thomas’s hand in a strong grip. "And you are Peter's boss, I take it? Inspector...Nightingale?"

"Please, call me Thomas," Thomas replies, and Mrs. Grant pauses, her gaze flicking over him, before nodding slowly. 

"You can call me Rose, then," she says finally.

Oh, this _is_ going to be a proper interrogation. Thomas bites back his amusement, although it gets even more difficult as Peter appears at the top of the stairs, slightly breathless and more than slightly alarmed. He's dressed very casually, in jeans and trainers, and a t-shirt that reads _Keep Calm and Don't Blink_. 

"Mum, you're early," Peter says.

"Is that a problem?" Mrs. Grant asks him, and Peter shakes his head quickly. 

"No, uh--I see you've met everyone."

"Your boss was kind enough to introduce himself, but I still haven't been introduced to..." Mrs Grant turns to Molly, waiting, and Peter rushes in to fill the gap. 

"This is Molly, our...station manager."

"I see," Mrs. Grant says, giving Molly the head-to-toe assessment, her gaze lingering on Molly’s white apron, and Molly bobs a slightly wobbling curtsy. 

Mrs. Grant stares at her, then turns that assessing gaze onto her abashed son, clearly waiting for an explanation. 

Peter swallows, and then gives his mother a hopeful smile. "Right, so--can I show you around?"

*

And so, for the second time that week, Thomas finds himself sipping tea in the study and shamelessly eavesdropping on Peter's conversation with his mother. 

He feels less guilty about it this time, both because Peter obviously knows that Thomas is listening, and because the majority of their conversation is Krio and thus sailing right over Thomas's head. He still has a general idea of what's going on, from the tone of their voices, the brisk snap of Mrs. Grant's voice compared to Peter's hesitant replies, the slightly sped-up rate of Peter’s heartbeat as he gives his mother a very edited tour of the Folly. 

Thomas doesn't realize he's smiling into his tea cup until he hears Molly's hissing laughter; he looks up to see her smirking as she rearranges the plates and cups on the table for the fourth time.

“Molly,” Thomas says, lightly chiding, and she just shrugs at him, but amusement is still lurking in the corners of her mouth. 

Finally they’re coming towards the study, and Thomas waits to rise to his feet until the door is actually opening, Molly demurely folding her hands in front of her as Peter ushers his mother in.

She blinks at the laid-out pastries and biscuits, enough for a garden party, and Peter offers, “We thought it’d be nice to have tea?” his voice rising up just a little at the end. 

Thomas smiles and elaborates, “And I thought I could answer any questions you might have.”

Mrs. Grant’s gaze sharpens and she says, firmly, “Now _that_ sounds like an excellent idea,” as she sits down in a chair and reaches out for a macaron. She makes a noise of surprise and pleasure as she bites into it, swallowing with a hand over her mouth as she asks, “Did you make these?” 

At Molly’s nod, Mrs. Grant smiles suddenly, her grin an exact replica of Peter’s, and says, “They’re delicious.”

Molly nods again in acknowledgment, looking pleased at the compliment. Mrs. Grant finishes off the macaron, settles herself in the seat, and asks, “Now, I don’t mean to be rude--”

“Oh, God,” Peter mumbles involuntarily; Mrs. Grant fixes her son with a glare and continues, “But what are you, exactly?” She’s asking the question to Molly, who blinks before turning to Thomas, Mrs. Grant looks to Thomas as well, waiting for a reply. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Grant,” Thomas says, attempting to parry, but it’s no use, as she fixes _him_ with the same glare she’d just given to Peter a second before. 

It’s quite effective as an interrogation technique, and that’s before Mrs. Grant says, “Do you honestly think I’m blind? Or stupid? Only one person to clean this great big house, and it’s still this tidy? Hah!”

Thomas glances over to Molly, who is practically _glowing_ at this praise, even as Mrs. Grant continues, “Never mind how this isn’t like any police station I’ve ever seen, or how Molly here looks exactly as though she’s a vampire from those Japanese cartoons my son loved so much as a child--”

“Oh my God,” Peter groans, putting his face in his hands. 

Mrs. Grant continues ruthlessly, “--and you have that strange statue of Isaac Newton, not to mention those books in the library--well, all I can say is that if you have an explanation for what this place really is, I am ready to hear it.”

She folds her hands on top of her knees and looks at Thomas, waiting for an answer. 

Thomas looks at her, and starts slowly, “Well, Molly is the caretaker of the Folly.”

“And?” Mrs. Grant prods. 

Molly is very stiff with tension next to Thomas; Thomas glances at her once, to reassure her, before saying, “And no, she isn’t….well, she’s not entirely human.” As Mrs. Grant’s eyes go wide, her breathing and heartbeat starting to quicken, Thomas continues, keeping his voice steady, “Of course, strictly speaking, neither am I.”

In the moment of silence, it’s hard not to focus on Peter, who is gaping at him, but Thomas keeps his attention on Mrs. Grant, waiting, his own heartbeat nearly as quick as Peter’s is right now. 

After looking from him to Molly and back again with huge eyes, Mrs. Grant asks Thomas in a voice that’s only a little bit faint, “Well, and what are you then?”

“Mum!” Peter exclaims. “You--you can’t just _ask_ \--”

“Well, and why not?” Mrs. Grant demands, rounding on her son. “Your boss is sitting there telling me he’s _not human_ , and I’m not supposed to ask what he is?”

“I’m a wizard,” Thomas says, cutting into their conversation before the argument can really get going, “And also a werewolf.”

“I cannot believe this is happening,” Peter groans. 

“Hush,” Mrs. Grant says, lightly rapping Peter’s knuckles. “I want to hear more about this.”

“Of course you do,” Peter says, shaking his head, but when Thomas opens his mouth to keep going, Peter holds up a hand to stop him. “No, don’t you keep going, we’ll be here for days if you do. Mum, listen--”

And, to Thomas’s surprise and interest, Peter does manage to explain it all in a way that his mother seems satisfied with, with liberal use of the phrase “witchfinder”, which Thomas doesn’t quite understand but seems to appease Mrs. Grant, at least to the point where she’s not eyeing Thomas and Molly up with _quite _so much suspicion.__

__At least until she asks, “So is this what you were doing during those riots, then?”_ _

__“Um,” Peter says, glancing over at Thomas. “Sort of.”_ _

__“And is that usual in this job?” Mrs. Grant asks, sharply, and Peter groans. “Mum, I’m a police officer, it’s part of the job to respond when--”_ _

__“Though hardly usual,” Thomas interjects, and Peter takes the lifeline with a look of relief._ _

__“Yeah, exactly, it’s not like that’s happening every week. Most days I’m stuck in the library learning to conjugate Latin verbs.”_ _

__“Hmm,” Mrs. Grant says, a little doubtfully, but she does take another macaron, while Peter refills her cup of tea._ _

__*_ _

__“Thanks for that,” Peter says, late that evening in the study, after he’d driven his mother back home. “With my mum earlier.”_ _

__“Of course,” Thomas says, a little distractedly, looking over Peter’s Latin. “She’s your mother, perfectly natural.”_ _

__“It’s natural to sit through interrogations from your apprentice’s mother?” Peter asks, dubiously, and Thomas looks up, a smile on his face._ _

__“It was a lovely afternoon,” Thomas points out, and he means it--Mrs. Grant could be daunting at times, yes, but she was also charming in her forthright questions, and her fulsome praise for Molly’s pastries had had Molly practically beaming with delight by the end of her visit._ _

__And Thomas would do far more difficult things than sit through Mrs. Grant’s questions, if it meant keeping Peter in the Folly._ _

__“It was only proper to answer her questions, really,” Thomas insists. “She’s your mother, and you’re--”_ _

__Peter is watching him, eyes a little wider now as he waits, and the words are sitting there on Thomas’s mouth, ready to be uttered aloud._ _

__“My apprentice,” Thomas says instead, and it’s the faint flicker of disappointment in Peter’s eyes that has him pushing on, determinedly, “And a member of my pack, I suppose. Such as it is.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Peter says, still watching him, that clear dark gaze fixed right on his face. “So I’ve been told.”_ _

__Thomas hasn’t planned to ask the question, but something about the moment--the dim lighting from the lamp on Thomas’s desk, Peter’s relaxed air, his heartbeat calm and steady in Thomas’ ears--it all culminates in a moment where Thomas can ask, hesitantly, “Do you mind?” At Peter’s bewildered look, he elaborates, “It’s not--your apprenticeship is hardly in the usual line of things, historically.”_ _

__Peter just snorts at this. “Yeah, so? In the usual line of things, I wouldn’t have been allowed in through the front door, I’m not worried about that.” He grins, and adds, “Besides, according to my mum, I was never destined for a normal job anyway.”_ _

__Thomas smiles, from relief and amusement both. “How fortunate for us, then,” he says, and Peter’s dawning smile is a lovely thing to see, it really is._ _


End file.
